


Dreams and Nightmares

by vakarians_girl



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fear and Comfort, unspoken feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:40:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27700147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vakarians_girl/pseuds/vakarians_girl
Summary: Despite the time that's passed, the nightmares about Murphy are getting worse, and more regular. Niamh can't be sure if it's her failure to help catch him that's driving them, or something else.
Relationships: Detective/Adam du Mortain, Female Detective/Adam du Mortain, Niamh O'Driscoll/Adam du Mortain
Comments: 10
Kudos: 19





	Dreams and Nightmares

The warehouse was the same as it had been. Ramshackle, dirty, the roof falling to pieces. She could even see the stain on the tile and concrete floor that had been her blood. It made her shiver, and the scar on her neck throbbed. The feeling of teeth, strangely cold and blunt, ripping into her skin echoed across her memory. Murphy. Or whatever his name really was. His grating voice rubbed like splinters inside of her ears and she tried to push it down, to push the memory of it away.

Only when he spoke, when he called across the large, empty room, all the memories rushed back. Those small fragments had been nearly overwhelming, and now, thinking about the feeling of the blood, of Murphy’s experiment, of seeing Adam stabbed with a poisoned knife, of failing to stop Murphy, Niamh felt like she might be sick.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to get here.” She turned, slowly, to face him, hand sliding to the volt gun clipped to the belt beneath her trench coat. But when she finally looked at him, her heart dropped through the floor and her knees wobbled. He wasn’t alone. “I knew you’d come looking for him eventually.”

“Adam—” Her voice was choked as she took the smallest of steps forward, brown eyes locked with his green ones. He was in an awful state, something even more terrifying because it meant that his healing abilities weren’t working. His face, normally perfect and pristine, like alabaster in its smoothness, was puffed. Both upper and lower lip were split and swollen. His left eye was almost swollen shut, his right cheek angry and red enough that it might have been broken. Concrete burns ran along his jaw, as though he’d been shoved face-first into a wall. The light blue t-shirt he wore was dirtied and bloodied, his arms covered in bruises where they were visible.

And Murphy was holding a knife to his throat, a knife that was surely—

“It’s been dipped in DMB.” His voice was lazy, as though this was a formality for Murphy, just another boring thing to get through. “I’m not sure what it will do to him if I open his throat, but I’m sure it won’t be good.” Niamh was going to be sick. Her hands trembled, palms slick as she squeezed her fists. She took a wobbly step forward, eyes still locked with Adam’s, which were so painfully dull and empty, and Murphy let out a loud tut-tut. “That’s close enough, thank you. Move again without my say so and we’ll see exactly how much damage this can do.”

Frozen in place, terror coursing through her limbs, Niamh did as he said. The small movements of Adam’s chest, up and down with each breath, were the only things grounding her in the moment. She had no power here, and she knew it. She was unmoored and tiny in a storm that threatened to swallow her, and it was all her fault.

If only she’d been able to stop him before. If only she hadn’t been so weak.

“What do you want?” The shaking in her voice wasn’t as obvious as she thought it would be, but it was more obvious than she would have liked.

“For you to get rid of that volt, for starters. Just kick it my way, nice and easy.” Though she thought her heart had sunk as low as it could, she felt it drop even lower as she unclipped the tool from her belt and kicked it. The sound of its plastic case scraping across the ground felt as loud as a hundred sirens as she watched the knife in Murphy’s hand twitch. A long red weal was coming up across Adam’s neck, from the close exposure to concentrated DMB.

“What now?”

“Kneel.” Under her knees, the ground was cold and slightly damp, and the cracks that ran across it jutted painfully up into her flesh. But, again, she did as she was told. She had no choice. 

“Please. Let him go. You can have me. Just let him go.” She had hoped for a spark of anger, frustration, disapproval—something, anything, in Adam’s eyes, but he looked at her as though she meant nothing to him. As though seeing her and being here were simple inconveniences. Murphy smiled, and though it wasn’t cruel, wasn’t angry, Niamh could see the malice behind it.

“What do you think about that, Commanding Agent du Mortain? She seems to be quite in love with you.” Now she did see something in Adam’s eyes.

“It’s her fault I’m here. Let her pay for it how she will.” It was coldness. It took the breath out of her chest and she felt hot tears pricking against the backs of her eyes. Murphy laughed as her body sagged.

“Now, Miss O’Driscoll, do you still wish to make a trade?” Desperation filled her belly and spilled out from her lips before she could stop it.

“Yes. Take me. Let him go. Please.” Appearing thoughtful for a moment, Murphy rolled his lips together and fidgeted, glancing back and forth between the two of them.

“No.” The word was long, drawn out, and horrific, and as he said it, he drew the knife across Adam’s throat. The world moved in slow motion as Niamh saw the skin beneath it split, blood rising to the surface and staining the blue shirt and the pale skin, already turning paler by the instant. A scream ripped her throat in two, its volume painfully loud as it escaped her chest. She stumbled forward and watched as Adam’s hands went to his throat, gripping it tightly as though he could hold back the blood. His eyes were accusing, angry, full of a hate so painful that she didn’t notice Murphy as he walked over to her.

Until, that is, he yanked her up by her collar. Small flecks of blood had spurted onto his face, and he grinned at her under the macabre face paint. She noticed how sharp his teeth were.

“I do love it when I get the better deal,” he said, and then his teeth ripped into her throat.

Niamh woke with a scream, hands wrapped around the scar that had, only seconds ago, felt like it was being torn open all over again. The darkness consumed her, and though she tried to figure out where she was, what the time was, what was happening, the thoughts in her brain were so tangled up in images of blood and Adam’s hateful eyes that she couldn’t even breathe. The blanket wrapped too tightly around her legs, and even as she tried to kick it off and get free, it seemed to knot around the limbs more tightly. Her scar ached and her throat felt like it was closing as she remembered Murphy’s maniacal, hungry eyes and the feeling of failure, she thought she heard a teapot whistling but she wasn’t sure, it could have been her own screaming, something was thudding against her door, and the breath in her mouth came in and out too shallowly for her to think—

With a crack, her door burst open. A solid, blurry figure stood in the doorway for a moment before it rushed to her side in the blink of an eye. She had figured it out, she didn’t think she was screaming, it was only the way she was sobbing as she tried to pull enough air into her lungs. Frantic hands reached out for her, cool to the touch, large and comforting, but scared. Her already bad vision was blurred even further by a film of—tears?

“Niamh, Niamh I’m here. Niamh, you need to breathe. Just look at me and breathe, all right?” His hands gripped her face and turned her softly towards him. Adam’s features were writ with worry as he gazed into Niamh’s eyes. Keeping one hand cupping her face, he moved the other down to her chest, resting it gently just above her heart. “I’m here. You’re safe. You’re at the Agency. Nothing will get you. I’m here.”

***

Not needing to sleep had its perks, that was true. But it also had its downfalls, and right now, sitting in his room at the Agency, Adam was thinking more about those. Through the walls, he could hear the thudding of Farah’s music—which wasn’t altogether bad, really—and it kept breaking his concentration on the book in his hands. In truth, though, he thought with a sigh, rubbing a hand down his face, Farah’s music was just building upon his other distraction. Niamh.

She’d been spending more time at the Agency lately, and he couldn’t blame her, what with the way the maa-alused had ambushed her and that man at her apartment. And the way Falk had showed up through her window. And the way that Murphy had also ambushed her and the rest of Unit Bravo there. Really, the nights she returned to her apartment were nightmarish for Adam, and he’d made sure his patrols kept him close by enough to keep an eye on her, just in case. But the nights she stayed at the Agency were nearly as bad, if for other reasons.

He snapped his book shut, face heating in a way that he wished it wouldn’t. These feelings were ridiculous. They were dangerous. He had to control them. He needed to take a walk. He returned the book, largely unread, to its shelf, and slipped on shoes before quietly walking to the door. Farah’s music covered the sound of his movements, and he was strangely grateful—he didn’t want to talk to anyone, not now. Thoughts of the first time Niamh had stayed were lodged deep in his head. Her room, located in a different wing than the members of Unit Bravo, was still close enough to the training room that he had been able to hear her as she slept. Listening in wasn’t his intent, but she mumbled so much, and sometimes so loudly, that it was impossible for him to ignore her lilting voice. Especially when she whispered his name.

His hands squeezed into fists as he walked. If only that had been the end of it. If only that nightmare hadn’t woken her up, and she hadn’t found him in the training room, and they hadn’t argued. It had been nearly a week, and he could still feel the fragility that rolled off of her when he was near. He had hurt her, and that shamed him more than any feelings he was afraid to give in to. The wish, unbidden and necessarily unheeded, came into his mind, as it always did when he thought about her, to tell her how he felt. This walk wasn’t helping.

And that was when he heard the scream. His head snapped up, and he knew exactly who it was. He needed to get to Niamh’s room, and he needed to get there now. His mind raced as he ran, conjuring images of Falk, rippling into the room through glass, or a rogue supernatural breaking past security, or, even worse, Murphy, who was still out there somewhere. He sped up. By the time he reached her door, he could hear only whimpering and pained, panicked breath, somewhat muffled by the frantic rustling of sheets. Trying the door, he found it locked, and banged on it once, twice, three times, but to no avail. He gritted his teeth and jammed his shoulder against the heavy green-painted wood, ignoring the shattering sound of the lock breaking as the door finally burst open.

Scanning the room, he saw nothing. No supernaturals, Falk, Murphy, or otherwise. Only Niamh, tangled in blankets, hyperventilating and scared, her whole body shaking and her pupils dilated. Her heartbeat crashed in his ears, erratic and terrified, and he could smell the adrenaline and the fear that poured off of her as she choked on her panic. Something ripped inside his chest and he found himself kneeling by her in an instant, instinctively reaching out to hold her face. He could see tears filming over her eyes, eyes that seemed bigger without the lenses of her glasses hiding them.

“Niamh, Niamh I’m here. Niamh, you need to breathe. Just look at me and breathe, all right?” He turned her gently to face him, ignoring the pang that ran through him when he realized how deep into her panic attack she was. He felt helpless. With one hand still holding her face, he moved the other to rest over her heart, thinking only of how she had come to him when he had been trapped in front of Falk’s mirror. “I’m here. You’re safe. You’re at the Agency. Nothing will get you. I’m here.” She held his gaze, breathing still ragged and uncertain, tears still gathering in her eyes, heart still jumping and spluttering, but slowly, the smell of adrenaline faded, slowly her tiny whimpers and sobs silenced themselves, and slowly, the rigid panic that held her in a vise seemed to dissipate.

***

_Adam is here. Adam is here, and Murphy isn’t_. She stumbled over the words, repeating them desperately in her mind until the tightness started to leave her chest. The moments stretched out, endlessly, one after the next, and she tried to focus on Adam’s eyes now, here, eyes that weren’t empty as they looked at her, eyes that didn’t seem to blame her. His hands, cool to the touch, grounded her. But they didn’t erase the guilt. Slowly, the terror of the moment faded, and all that seemed to be left was a vague aching in her limbs from holding them so tensely. She closed her eyes, breathed in, looked back at Adam, and burst into tears.

“I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault that you didn’t catch him, and that he’s still out there, somewhere, and—and—” Shuddering overtook her, and she found she couldn’t speak. Despite the tears on her face, her mouth felt incredibly dry. Anguish rippled across Adam’s face, and she remembered the image of blood, spreading across his throat, streaming out, a sickening spray. Her sobs redoubled.

As Adam watched her dissolve, he felt the ripping again in his chest. With one fluid movement, he was sitting next to her on the bed, drawing her into his arms. Sanja’s prophecy be damned, but he couldn’t let her break like that without at least trying to help hold her together. Sweat clung to her skin, sticking to the oversized t-shirt she wore and making her bare legs clammy. Her small fingers knotted and bunched into Adam’s own shirt as she cried, and Adam simply held her, his lips pressed to the top of her head. She was so small like this—though she was shorter than Farah normally, it rarely seemed that way. Seeing her folded in on herself, though, reminded him.

It took a long time for the tears to slow. With Niamh’s breathing still uneven, hiccups and gasps disrupting her words, she began to speak.

“I’m so sorry, Adam.”

“What for?”

“For letting him get away.” He sighed, and the breath ruffled the strands of Niamh’s mousey hair.

“It wasn’t your fault. I promise.” The words came out more firmly than he intended, made heavier by the memory of the fear that had gripped him as she lay bleeding in Murphy’s warehouse. Silence descended again, and he found himself stroking her back softly.

“I keep seeing him. In my dreams,” she said after a long while. Her voice was small, fluttery, like a tiny sparrow. He nodded.

“I know.” She shifted in his arms, seeming unsure of whether she wanted to look up at him or avoid his gaze altogether.

“He had you this time.” The whisper was agonized, and Adam saw fresh tears welling up against the remnant drops still clinging to her lashes. His own heart skipped slightly. “He had you and it was my fault.” Her gaze fell, and Adam knew Murphy hadn’t been the only villain in her nightmare. Softly, he turned her chin up, waiting until her eyes met his.

“Did I tell you that?” After a long, still moment, she nodded. “Then listen to me when I say this now, not in a dream. Not in a nightmare. It wasn’t your fault then. And it isn’t your fault now.” _And I love you._ The unsaid words echoed in his mind, but he knew they were too far. He couldn’t say them, not now, and not ever, if Sanja was to be believed.

A long beat passed, during which Niamh realized just how close Adam’s lips were to her own, and how safe she felt being held by him. His hand was still under her chin. She felt as though he could see right through her, into every piece of her. And then he cleared his throat and moved away.

“I know it seems hard, but you should at least try to sleep.” Her heart sunk. He lifted her gently from his lap, where she hadn’t even realized he’d placed her, and set her back on the bed. Before he managed to stand and move away, though, she placed a hand on his arm.

“Could you stay? Just for a little while.” The air between their eyes felt laden with something, with dozens of unsaid words. “I know you don’t sleep and you don’t need to, it’s just I—I’d feel safer, you know, with you—with someone—here.” Eventually, Adam nodded, and Niamh felt relief seep through her. “I brought—I brought some of my books, from the apartment. I mean, I know it might get boring staying here. With me. Asleep and all.” Blush was rising to her cheeks and forehead, and she kicked herself for continuing to talk. But a soft smile spread across Adam’s lips, and he simply nodded.

When he stood, Adam tried not to look at Niamh’s bare legs as she righted the tangled covers and slipped back underneath them. The memory of running into her in her apartment, dressed in the same sort of oversized t-shirt and underwear, flashed through his mind. Her skin had been so soft as he held her. Frustrated, he turned his back and approached the plush chair set up by the bookcase, trying not to think about it, and failing miserably. He pulled a book off the shelf, and chuckled slightly. Another edition of Beowulf.

“Adam?” He looked up and across the room at her, eyebrows lifting as he waited to hear what she had to say. “Thank you. For staying.” Her voice was already sleepy again, exhausted from the emotions of the last few hours. Adam’s throat tightened, and he gripped the book in his hands tightly.

“Always.” She was already asleep.


End file.
